


I am Not a Robot

by HobbitSpaceCase



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Gunplay, Infatuated Tyrell, Irritated Mr. Robot, M/M, Minor Choking, Mr. Robot is jealous of Elliot, Secretly infatuated Mr. Robot, Sub Tyrell, implied virgin Mr. Robot, sex under the Red Wheelbarrow, very unsafe activities with an unloaded gun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 14:49:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16042664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HobbitSpaceCase/pseuds/HobbitSpaceCase
Summary: A quiet sigh interrupted his concentration, a wistful exhalation like air from a deflating balloon, dancing across the hairs at the back of his neck and making his skin prickle.  His face wrinkled in a displeased frown.Or, the one where Mr. Robot decides to deal with Tyrell's infatuation with sex, and realizes some things about himself along the way.





	I am Not a Robot

The room was dim. The flickering yellow bulb overhead barely competed with the glow of computer screens as lines of code flashed by, spurred on by the clever fingers of a Robot wearing human flesh and his delusional human partner. Their other companion, Irving, the Dark Army grunt tasked with watching over them, had left some hours ago to sleep. The only sound in the room was the clacking of keys, which echoed strangely off of rough stone walls. The echoes bounced around in Mr. Robot’s head until he was the code, the code was him, and both were the inevitable revolution he set in motion and must now complete. There was no room for anything else.

A quiet sigh interrupted his concentration, a wistful exhalation like air from a deflating balloon, dancing across the hairs at the back of his neck and making his skin prickle. His face wrinkled in a displeased frown.

“What,” he said, irritation thick in his voice. He finished the line of code he was on before tearing his eyes away from the screen. At the desk next to his, Tyrell Wellick stared at him with his usual mix of mania, infatuation, and sorrow swirling through eyes the color of ice in shadows. Tyrell frowned back at Robot, but his expression was full of concern rather than frustration.

“How are you feeling?” Tyrell asked, his gaze darting towards the still healing scar on Elliot’s abdomen before climbing back up to meet Robot’s gaze with the full intensity of his regret. It was Tyrell’s hand, after all, that pulled the trigger and put a bullet in his precious Elliot. Robot wasn’t thrilled to deal with the aftermath of being shot, but the level of remorse Tyrell had shown so far was wildly over the top. He didn’t _kill_ Elliot. Even if he had, it’s not like he hadn’t killed before. Besides, it was Elliot he shot, Elliot who bore the brunt of that pain and shock and trauma. Not Robot. Robot would have expected him to understand that, by now. After Angela spilled everything she knew.

“I’m fine,” Robot ground out through a fake grin. “Never better. Now, if we could get back to work?” Tyrell nodded, and he lost himself once again in code for his revolution.

For about three minutes.

This time, the tapping of Tyrell’s fingers against his desk accompanied his wistful sighing. Robot took a deep breath and glanced sidelong at the partner he had never meant to acquire. There was no denying the man was useful. Without his assistance, Stage 1 would have been dead in the water from AllSafe’s honeypot. He had kept Stage 2 running while Elliot was in jail, too, and was utterly devoted to his idea of their godhood. On the other hand, that devotion came with baggage that Robot could have done without. Baggage complicated things.

“If I fucked you, would that get this restless fidgeting out of your system?”

Tyrell started at the blunt question, his head whipping around as guilt and embarrassment reddened his pale cheeks. “You are not required to reciprocate my interest out of some feeling of obligation,” Tyrell said, aiming for delicate and landing squarely on awkward.

Robot snorted. “I’m well aware of that. And I’m sure you’re well aware that Elliot has no interest in you at all,” he added, rather brutally. Tyrell’s frown deepened, and Robot sneered. “I, however, am not Elliot. I may not believe in your blather about gods, but I’m not opposed to a good quick fuck if it’ll help you focus on our work.” It took all of half a second for Tyrell to contemplate the offer, and then he was out of his chair, looming over Robot and cupping his cheeks in warm, soft hands.

“Are you sure?” he asked, blue eyes searching for any hint of hesitancy. Robot was not Elliot, though, and he did not hesitate. In answer to Tyrell’s question, he reached his own hands up to fist in the collar of Tyrell’s fancy dress shirt and dragged him down, till their mouths crashed together in a thoroughly ungraceful kiss.

Tyrell moaned, his fingers tightening on either side of Robot’s face, and he slipped his tongue past Robot’s lips.

It was messy, from there. Tyrell’s fervent kisses and Robot’s irritation quickly had them stumbling towards Tyrell’s ratty bed against the far wall, shrugging out of clothes as they went. It was almost amusing, how little care Tyrell gave to his expensive dress shirt and slacks as they dropped to the dusty floor. Robot shoved his shoulders when his knees hit the bed and he went down. This time, it was Robot looming over Tyrell. Turned out he liked things much better that way. Tyrell’s eyes drifted down towards the bulge growing in Robot’s pants from all the kissing, and Robot was possessed of a filthy, vicious thought. He leaned down, pressed chapped lips to Tyrell’s smooth mouth in a kiss almost chaste, and reached under the mattress with the hand not holding himself up on Tyrell’s shoulder.

When he straightened, he had the gun in his hand. The same gun that he had failed to kill Tyrell with, and that Tyrell in turn had used against Elliot, all in the name of keeping the revolution safe.

Tyrell’s eyes were wide, pupils large and dark as he took in the gun in Robot’s loose grip. “Have you decided to repay me for shooting you?” Tyrell asked, the hint of laughter at the back of his throat choked and thin. And yet, for all the fear that trembled in his voice, the bulge at the front of his boxers had not abated at all.

“Would you die, if I did?” Robot asked. The barrel of the gun caught against Tyrell’s lower lip, and Robot paused. “I thought you were meant to be a god.” Pink, kiss-swollen lips parted, wet tongue darting out to taste cold metal.

“ _We_ are gods,” Tyrell whispered, a plea and a prayer at once. His hands fluttered uncertainly around Robot’s hips. When the gun barrel slipped past his lips, he let his hands settle decisively on the sharp, frail bones of Elliot’s hips where they jutted out from his boxers, framing a thin stomach and a trail of dark hair. One warm thumb brushed over the puckered circle of scar tissue where the bullet had been removed from Elliot’s abdomen. Robot hissed, and shoved the gun in deeper. It was healing well, but pressure could still make it twinge with residual pain. 

It also just felt _weird_. His mind remembered watching Elliot get shot, and having it touched on the body he associated as his own, the body of Elliot’s father that Elliot saw and that he saw in the mirror, gave him a disorienting sense of vertigo.

Tyrell tried to jerk his hand away, but Robot used his free hand to hold Tyrell in place. “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he said, his cheerful tone at odds with the way he tipped the gun against Tyrell’s tongue, rubbing against it like it was his cock in Tyrell’s mouth. “Can you still taste the gunpowder?” he asked. “Does it taste like violence, and death? Or does it taste like saving the world?”

Tyrell coughed and swallowed as the gun was removed from his mouth, but his answer was calm. “It tastes like metal,” he said, meeting Robot’s gaze calmly despite the lust that burned in his gaze, his pupils so wide they practically engulfed the blue. “Like metal, and dust, and whatever filth has been growing under this mattress for however many years it has been here.” His thumbs drew circles in the hollow of Robot’s hips, the left barely brushing against the edge of Robot’s cock where it strained against the cheap fabric of his boxers. “I’d much rather taste your cock,” Tyrell continued, “but I will take whatever you give me. I am _yours_.”

The gun slid easily down the side of his long, elegant neck, down into the hollow of his throat and over the bumps and ridges of his chest. He was far more muscular beneath his fancy button-downs than either Elliot or Robot. Where Elliot had prominent ribs to pattern the sickly pale skin between his neck and stomach, and Edward had not exactly been in shape before he died, soft with layers of fat beneath the skin from his neck to his ankles, Tyrell had clearly defined muscles for the gun to travel across. His skin wasn’t pale from illness or drug abuse, just from his Nordic blood, the same blood that shone blue in his veins beneath the skin. He had been staying in a cabin well outside the city while Elliot rotted in jail. He had mentioned it, once, to Robot. Told him about using his free time to split firewood, when his patience ran thin and the waiting became too difficult. 

It showed. Showed in the curves the gun tracked from his collarbones, down over his pecs and around into the dip of his sternum. Showed in the hard muscle over his ribs, a healthier ladder towards his stomach than the one his hands brushed over as he touched Robot (touched _Elliot_ ) in turn. Robot paused when he reached the point on Tyrell’s stomach that mirrored the scar on Elliot’s body. “Do you think he lived because he is a god?” Robot asked. The little furrow between Tyrell’s brows showed his lack of understanding at the choice in pronoun. “Elliot,” Robot clarified, as a mean little part of his mind wondered if Tyrell would ever see just _him_. “Is that why you think he lived?”

Tyrell frowned, contemplating the question with more gravity than it deserved. “I think you lived because I shot you somewhere that could be healed, and the Dark Army provides us with excellent doctors. The fate that surrounds a god does not necessarily show itself in feats of superhuman abilities, but rather in luck and circumstance aligning to create a charmed life.”

Robot snorted at that. He dug the gun in harder against Tyrell’s pretty flesh. “Would circumstance and luck keep you alive, if I pulled the trigger right now?”

“Yes,” Tyrell said, the confidence in his voice unwavering. “Because I unloaded it before I stored it under my mattress.”

Robot couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled out of him at that. “Did you now,” he said, finally sinking onto the bed with Tyrell, knees bracketing Tyrell’s strong, blond thighs and sinking into pointy springs beneath the thin mattress. He brought the gun up under Tyrell’s chin, used it to tip his head back till he could bend down and kiss his infuriatingly pretty compatriot. Tyrell’s arms wrapped around him, strong and solid, and his eyes slipped closed as he allowed himself to be oriented into the kiss. Robot slid forward another inch, and his cock rubbed against the bulge in Tyrell’s boxers, the friction causing delicious sparks to swarm up and down his spine. Beneath him, Tyrell moaned. The movements of his throat as he swallowed more noises rocked against the gun in Robot’s fist.

A wild energy settled into Robot’s guts at the sounds, at the feel of their cocks rubbing against each other. In spite of the way he spoke to Elliot sometimes, he didn’t usually bother with sex, or even masturbation. The vulgar boasting was more to get a rise out of Elliot, to drag him out of his shell, than for any real burning need to tumble about in sweaty tangles of awkward, bony limbs with other people. Now, though, grinding down against Tyrell as he broke the kiss and brought the gun back to Tyrell’s lips, he thought he might have been missing out.

There wasn’t enough space between them for the angle to be right, but Tyrell accepted the spit-slick barrel as prettily as he had the first time, mere minutes ago. His lips were wet from kissing, and slid easily around the barrel. He licked around the tip and then sucked as well as he could given the angle, and Robot was reminded of how that wet pink tongue felt inside his mouth. He wondered how it might feel against his dick. Tyrell had mentioned wanting to taste him, after all. “Lay down,” he mumbled, words struggling through the morass of arousal that clogged his veins and drowned his thoughts, sweet as syrup and just as tricky to escape.

Tyrell obliged, leaning back on his elbows to stare up at Robot from hooded eyes. He truly was a stupidly pretty man, Robot though, tossing the gun to the side. It bounced once against the mattress and then lay still, gleaming dully in the yellow light. “Do you still want to suck my cock?” he asked, letting the words roll off his tongue with a sneering, dismissive edge, even as his blood burned hot at the idea of it. “Is that what you’ve been craving, a nice hard dick in your mouth to quiet those restless little ticks of yours?”

Tyrell shuddered at the questions, breath coming in deep, panting gulps. His fingers curled into fists against the worn bedspread, hips twitching beneath Robot as he clearly fought to keep some measure of composure. “I would like nothing more,” he said, finally, voice deep and dark and hot. Another bolt of arousal shot through Robot’s guts. He lifted himself up on his knees, balancing awkwardly to pull his boxers all the way off first one leg and then the other. The whole time, Tyrell watched him, his dark blue gaze a promise that Robot would not be disappointed.

“There,” Robot said, cruel and condescending as he leaned over Tyrell, fully naked, to smear the head of his cock against Tyrell’s lips. “I know you’ve been desperate for it ever since you first met me, so go ahead. Taste it.” Tyrell obliged eagerly.

It was so much _better_ than Robot had anticipated. Wet, and hot, and definitely better than any of the memories he could dredge up of Elliot getting off with his hand. He knew, vaguely, that Elliot didn’t care much about sex. That to him, it was just the awkward, messy thing that Robot had always expected it to be.

God, what a fucking idiot. Sex was _great_.

He pressed forward, bracing himself with one palm against the wall, and used his other hand to guide himself deeper into Tyrell’s mouth. Even when he choked and gagged, saliva flooding his mouth and dripping from the corners of his lips, Tyrell kept his mouth open and let Elliot use him. Let Elliot rock forward till he was fully buried in that gorgeous wet heat, Tyrell’s throat convulsing around the head and sending further shocks of pleasure racing down his limbs. “God, you’re beautiful,” he said, unthinking. Tyrell’s eyes shone and his fingers clutched Robot’s hips, and even with a mouth full of cock he managed to smile.

A reckless impulse drove Robot sideways, to scoop up the gun and hold it to Tyrell’s head. “Bang!” he said, laughing at the absurdity of the idea. “And there goes that pretty, clever brain,” he cooed, “splattered all over the bed.” He set up a rhythm fucking Tyrell’s mouth and pressed harder on the gun between Tyrell’s eyes, hard enough to bruise, hard metal against hard bone, with the thinnest layer of softness in between. Tyrell bucked under him, and took everything Robot gave him, so prettily it was almost unbearable. His tongue felt like it was trying to taste every last inch of Robot’s cock in his mouth, curling around it and laving flat over the head and dipping into the slit, a move that had Robot curling forward with a groan, his weight pressing the gun harder still between blue, blue eyes.

“Fuck,” Robot muttered, straining to keep the mean edge in his voice, “Maybe I should just keep you under my desk, use your mouth whenever I want, or maybe just whenever I’m getting bored.” One of Tyrell’s hands slipped off his hips, and he heard the slick sound of Tyrell fisting his own cock. “Yeah?” he asked, grinding the gun barrel into fragile skin. “You like the sound of that? I bet I could finish all the code we need. You can just be my stress-relief. And maybe when all this is over, I _won’t_ load this gun with bullets and shoot you for real. Maybe, if you’re good.”

The words seemed to spur Tyrell on, his whole body shaking beneath Robot as he sucked Robot’s cock and stroked his own with frantic neediness. “Are you going to swallow?” Robot asked, letting the gun fall to the bed again so he could cup his hand over Tyrell’s throat. The head of his cock bulged against the skin from the inside. He could feel it against his palm every time he thrust forward, and could feel Tyrell’s abused throat working for breath every time he rocked back. It was gorgeous. He squeezed, just a little bit, and Tyrell’s head fell back, his eyes closing as he whimpered. The sound of his fist on his cock increased in tempo, and Robot felt an answering swell of need in his own core. 

Tyrell’s throat was so soft, so fragile beneath his hand. He could still remember Tyrell telling Elliot about the woman he killed, the one he strangled to death with his bare hands. He wondered, briefly, what it said about the man beneath him, that he shot people and strangled people and got off to the same being done to him. Tyrell Wellick was a different kind of twisted than the corporate snakes he’d wanted so badly to join. The kind of twisted that burrowed beneath Robot’s skin without his notice, set up residence, and made him come, groaning, down Tyrell’s throat. The contractions of his throat as he swallowed all of it were almost too much on Robot’s suddenly oversensitive cock, but it was a clean, sharp sort of _too much_ that had him pressing forward, seeking it out until the last tremors dissipated from his limbs.

He squirmed out of Tyrell’s grasp, extricating himself from the sticky mess they had become. Something wet dripped down the small of his back. A glance down at the bed confirmed that Tyrell had come, too. A puddle of it cooled in the dip of his stomach, the rest of it split between the hand Tyrell was wiping on the covers like a caveman and the sticky drops rolling down Robot’s back. He glanced around the sparsely furnished room, rolled his eyes, and joined Tyrell in using the already ragged blanket to clean off. His boxers were nearly falling off the edge of the bed, and he snagged them before they could drop to the filthy floor. His jeans and t-shirt were inescapably dirty when he collected them off the ground, but he did appreciate keeping clean boxers.

“Well,” he said over his shoulder, “that was fun, but now I believe you promised me some uninterrupted work.” When he looked back, Tyrell was still splayed out on the bed. He propped himself up on his elbows as Robot watched, and daintily dabbed at the spit dripping down his smile with a new corner of sheet.

“Of course,” he said. “Whatever you need that is in my power to give, I will always be happy to provide.”

“Better be whatever _I_ need,” Robot muttered to himself, low enough that Tyrell didn’t hear from where he was still getting dressed. He slid into his seat, let the lines of code overtake his vision, and wished, not for the first time, that Elliot was the one forced to live as a shadow, the one no one every really saw except the two of them, the one always mistaken for someone else, even when _he_ was the one who had earned the admiration. Mr. Robot only existed to help Elliot, to do what Elliot couldn’t, what he was too squeamish to do. He had all the drive and ambition that Elliot had, but sometimes.

Tyrell settled in next to him, and Robot grinned sideways. “Maybe when we finish this, we’ll have time to do stuff like that more often, just you and I.” The smile Tyrell sent him was as bright and hopeful as sunshine in spring.

Sometimes, Mr. Robot wanted to be the human one.


End file.
